


eligere facere bonum

by ghostofgatsby



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - Medical, Alternate Universe - Police, Blood, Coping, Crying, Cuddling/Snuggling, Death, Doctors, Drinking, Flirting, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Gun Violence, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Kissing, M/M, Multi, Police, Surgery, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:00:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7654705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Smith feels like he was groomed and brought up to be a doctor. Both his parents and his older siblings went through medical school. It just seemed like a no-brainer for him to follow suit.</p>
<p>He had always been confident he could help someone no matter the circumstances, and for a long time, he believed nothing was too impossible. The chance of a patient dying in surgery is relatively low, and Smith had been lucky.</p>
<p>Until he wasn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	eligere facere bonum

**Author's Note:**

> Spin-off of an unwritten but much discussed murder mystery AU, and the answer to the question, “what if Smith actually became a doctor?” Takes place in the Pacific Northwest (Washington/Oregon) during the mid 1980s. Smith is a general surgeon, Trott is a medical examiner and forensic analyst, and Ross is an inter-city police officer.
> 
> Many thanks to Leon, who the murder mystery AU crew would not exist without. I'm glad to share these characters, and though the original story line may never be completely written, I'm happy to let them come to life in at least this fashion of a "what if" scenario. Thanks for putting up with my numerous aesthetic emails, endless love for 80s nonsense, and the short early draft that became this fic ^^.
> 
> cw: blood/surgery/death/dead bodies/injury/hospitals/guns/drinking/guilt/grief; mention of illness/medication/non-graphic medical procedures (doctor checkup, surgery, autopsy)  
> If I need to tag something else, let me know.
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2016/08/03/eligere-facere-bonum-ghostofgatsby

Smith is starving. He should really try to eat a full breakfast, instead of a granola bar and some coffee before he leaves for work in the morning. It always left him hungry halfway through performing his second surgery. Sometimes his stomach growled so loudly the nurses gave him dirty looks. Kind of inopportune when you’re doing colorectal surgery for a Crohn's patient, but it’s finally lunchtime for him, and the county hospital’s cafeteria serves a mean chili.

Smith crushes his crackers into his chili bowl, on top of a heap of cheddar cheese and jalapeno peppers. The cafeteria is an open and airy space. The walls are lined with big windows that look out over the city. After the big lunch rush, the cafeteria is peacefully quiet compared to the tension and talking in a surgical ward. The nurses could be too chatty during surgery. Smith wanted to relax after focusing so intently on his work for long stretches of time.

Smith stirs his chili with a soup spoon and stares at the seagulls cartwheeling through the air outside the windows. Bloody birds. They shit all over his office window like it’s their personal defecation bullseye.

Trott sets his tray down across from him with a clatter.

“Holy fuck, you finally crawled out of the cave,” Smith remarks, taking a bite of his chili. “I was wondering if you were going to show up at all.”

Trott narrows his eyes behind his wide-framed glasses. “I do eat lunch, you know.”

“Not when I do.”

Trott sighs. He sits down and scoots closer to the table. The metal legs on his chair squeak across the linoleum. “You know how it gets down there, Smith.”

“I know. But the dead can wait. Gotta give trace evidence something to find in your stomach contents, Trotty. Pile on the work for your bastard of a boss.”

“Shhh, keep your voice down.”

Smith rolls his eyes. “You’ll probably die working yourself to death. Might as well give Brindley a hell of a body to dissect.”

“He’d just make Jones do it.” Trott scoffs, glancing around the room like someone could overhear. The only people eating lunch at the same time they are is a small group of x-ray techs over by the entrance.

Smith shudders. “Fuck Jones, too. You’re better off throwing yourself into the incinerator than having him do a hack-and-slash job.” He takes another bite of his chili and raises an eyebrow at Trott’s tray. “Have you _ever_ eaten a decent meal since med school, Trott?” he asks.

Trott unwraps his sandwich, a simple turkey and provolone on marble rye. Out of all the options the hospital cafeteria has, why does he pick a boring sandwich? “You’re implying that I ate decent meals _during_ med school. You and I both know we barely had time to take a shit, never mind eat a three course meal.”

Smith moans. “Don’t remind me. I can’t even look at ramen noodles the same. I think that was all we ate the entirety of our schooling.”

“There was that one time a professor invited us all over for a hot pot.”

“Yeah, I remember that! The best meal we had in eight years.”

“Best meal we’ve had since.”

They eat in silence for a while. Smith scarfs down his chili before Trott finishes his sandwich. Trott’s always a slow eater.

“You want my chips?” Trott asks, nodding at his tray.

“No.” Smith opens the bag and steals a chip anyway. He nudges it back towards Trott. “You can eat the rest.” He picks up his coffee and finishes it off, swirling the cold dregs at the bottom of the cup. His brow furrows. “Seriously, Trott, eat your chips. Don’t drop them off in my office this time. Out of med school and I still have to remind you to finish your food.”

Trott tuts and rubs his eyes under his glasses. He sets his remaining half of a sandwich back down on the parchment paper it was wrapped in. “Fuck. We’ve been out of school for how long now?”

“Too long for what we get paid.” Smith pushes up the sleeve of his lab coat and looks at his watch. His break is nearing its end. He pushes back his chair and stands.

“Back to work, already?” Trott asks, lowering his face from his hand.

Fuck, Trott looks tired. How much sleep did he get last night? Smith doesn’t remember what time he got home. He sighs internally.

“Yeah. I’ve got prep to do for my next surgery. Lives to save; people to help,” he smirks, “You know how it is.”

“I don’t, actually,” Trott drolls without humor.

Smith snorts and collects his trash to dispose of on the way out of the cafeteria. “I’ll probably be done by later this evening.”

Trott grimaces. “Eight for me. If I leave on time.”

“I’ll bring you dinner.” Smith stands there for a beat longer, tray in hand, staring at Trott. He wants to kiss him, and tell him to come home soon. Trott would no doubt blush and stammer, and Smith would grin and skip off to his next patient with a spring in his step. But they can’t do that here. Not even in the near-emptiness of the cafeteria. He picks a piece of lint off of Trott’s maroon scrubs instead.

“Go on, sunshine,” Trott says quietly, “You don’t want to be late.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Smith’s heart aches with affection. “Tell Brindley to shove a brick up his ass if he wants you to work overtime tonight,” he says.

Trott smiles and shakes his head. “I fucking wish.”

 

* * *

 

Smith sings one of Blondie's catchy songs, walking down the hall on the way to his office with his hands in his lab coat pockets. Seeing Trott for a late lunch is always enough to put him in hopeful spirits, especially when he didn’t have to drag him out of an autopsy to get him there. Viscera-covered Trott doesn’t heighten his appetite- but then again, he does surgeries for a living. He’s used to it.

Smith pauses in his singing to push open a door at the end of the hall. He wishes he could wear his Walkman around the hospital, but then he’d be cuttin’ Footloose all the time.

Just as Smith is about to bust a move anyway, one of the nurses gets his attention.

“ _Hey, Alex!_ ”

Smith slides up to the information desk. _Didn't know we were on a first name basis, but okay_ , he thinks. “Afternoon, ladies…” he greets aloud.

Angela gives him a friendly wave. “Afternoon, doc.”

“Hey, doc!” Stacy chirps brightly.

Stacy and Angela are the second shift nurses in this wing of the surgical wards.

“Is that a new tie?” Stacy asks him.

“What, this old thing?” He pulls a face and adjusts his lizard-patterned tie. The girls giggle. “Nah. I don’t buy new ties very often.”

Stacy leans over the counter, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “I meant to ask you this morning...are you going to the company bowling game on Saturday?”

“Ah, I don't know…” Smith shakes his head.

“You should go!” Stacy pushes his shoulder teasingly.

“No, I don't think-”

“What, you don't want to go with me?” She mock pouts for a moment and giggles again.

“I'm not really into bowling.” Smith smiles. He went once last year, and it was an uncomfortable experience. He dragged Trott along, but both he and Trott were shit. They ended up getting put on separate teams, Smith with the bubbly, hyperactive, flirty pediatric nurses, and Trott with the curmudgeonly, old heart surgeons in the farmost alley. They left halfway through the night and promised each other never again.

Stacy smiles back. “Well, what about me?” She bites her lip coquettishly. “We could go somewhere else if you wanted. The movies; the mall...you name it.”

Smith chuckles nervously and winces at her flirting. Over Stacy’s shoulder, Angela is glancing up at them behind a stack of paperwork. “I'm afraid not,” he tells Stacy, “You’re not my type, sweetheart. Sorry.” He smiles sympathetically, and with a wink, pushes himself away from the counter and continues towards his office.

Hissed whispers follow him down the hallway.

“I told you he was into brunettes, Ange, God!”

“Shhh, Stacy!”

Smith snorts to himself, and rolls his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Working in surgery can be monotonous. Some days are more tiring than others, when Smith has several long, arduous surgeries scheduled back to back. He goes from patient to patient and does what he was trained. Being a general surgeon means you have to be adaptable. Smith thinks that learning as much as he can about the human body in general is the way to go, that way, no matter the situation, he has the skills to succeed.

In med school, his professors talked a lot about their work being the kind that saves lives. And doctors are always lauded as being heroes and people of merit.

Sometimes, Smith feels like he was groomed and brought up to be a doctor. Both his parents and his older siblings went through medical school. It just seemed like a no-brainer for him to follow suit.

He doesn’t mind the work. There’s worth in getting thanks for a job well done at the end of the day. Especially after the repeated sights of red and metal, and people’s insides. Doing it for so long, you get desensitized to the gore. The reason why Smith keeps doing this is for the end result, that someone’s life is helped, or prolonged, or bettered by something he’s done.

“We’re losing them!”

The chance of a patient dying in surgery is relatively low. Smith had always been confident he could help someone no matter the circumstances, and for a long time, he believed nothing was too impossible.

Smith had been lucky.

Until he wasn’t.

The nurses swarm around the operating room in a frenzied blur of blue and green scrubs, and Smith frantically works to save the patient before him. Did his hand slip? He doesn’t know, but the cut was too deep, and now-

Now his gloves are soaking with blood and his patient’s life is draining before his eyes.

The minute things start going wrong, his assistants hand him something to suture up the wound and stop the bleeding. He tries, but it’s no use.

The monitor beeps frantically. The heart rate is a jagged line, more akin to an earthquake on a seismograph, and blood pressure’s dropping down rapidly.

_Don’t let me be too late…_ Smith thinks, hands slipping. _Dammit, come on!_

“ _Don’t- don’t die on me, for fuck’s sake!_ ” he stammers aloud. How could it all go wrong this fast?

Smith stops the bleeding, but his patient flatlines. The hollow toll of the machine makes his blood run cold. He can’t stop watching the line move across the screen. His own heart thuds hard against his ribcage.

“Code Blue, I need the crash team here, stat! Code Blue!” someone yells overhead.

Smith’s arms are forcibly removed from his patient’s body and he’s pushed back out of the way. He didn’t realize he had frozen in place until the anesthesiologist rolls in the defibrillator and shock pads, and the nurses try to resuscitate.

Smith watches through a haze. His mind clouds over as he watches his team try to undo his mistake. Trying again, and again, and again.

Everything in the room narrows down, focused in on the body he can’t see past the sea of scrubs.

The shock pads charge up, and the nurse shouts, “Clear!”

It’s no use.

The line on the monitor remains flat.

The nurses pull away, slowly and more subdued than they were when they rushed in. When they all move back, Smith can see his patient’s still, unmoving body.

The anesthesiologist checks the watch on her wrist and glances at Smith.

“Time of death…4:52 pm.”

 

The rest of the night is a blur. Smith automatically does what he's been trained to do. He changes out of bloodstained scrubs and into fresh ones, contacts the hospital director and meets with his team of nurses to go over what happened. Going out into the waiting room to inform the relatives is the hardest. He escapes into his office for a moment of peace, and then it's back into the surgery wing again prepping for another patient. Gallbladders, appendices, colons, kidneys, thyroids...if it's in the abdominal cavity, Smith's done surgery on it.

He has more people to take care of. He doesn't get any kind of reprieve. Smith compartmentalizes it all, and the remainder of his surgeries that night are successful.

At the end of his shift, Smith clocks out and sits down in his office. It’s seven pm. Trott won’t be done for at least an hour, and they usually ride home together. He could use the time to get paperwork done, but...it doesn’t feel like that’ll be enough to distract him.

There’s a new set of post-it notes stuck to his desk, about meeting’s he’ll need to attend. He already talked with his supervisor about today’s events. They ended their black-and-white discussion of what happened with a handshake. Smith’s supervisor clapped him on the shoulder. “Stay strong, lad,” he'd said.

Yeah, sure. Strength.

He doesn't feel very strong right now.

Smith tended to have a bull-headed mentality, barreling through life with an iron fist. He chased after what he wanted. Being a doctor was his dream, his parent’s dream, and he made it. He loves his job, but everything is scrambled after today’s events. Now that his workday is over, he isn’t sure how to translate his emotions into something processable. He doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about what he...

Smith looks around his office in search of a distraction from his thoughts. He flicks the head of the stupid red and yellow drinking bird on his desk, watching it bob forward and back, forward and back. Trott bought it for him. Apparently it was a requirement to have something kitschy or unnecessary if you had a single office in this hospital. Smith’s dwarven-looking supervisor had a sparkly half-geode he used to hoard paperclips. Trott's boss had a tiny globe with constellations on it. Trott shared one half an office with Jones, so Smith couldn't repay the gift. In his opinion, all this stuff just collected dust.

The dim glow of the sole reading lamp in the room illuminates the calendar on the far wall. Days are crossed off in red pen, through checked-off scheduled surgeries and faculty meetings. Tomorrow would be a paperwork day, because after what had happened he’d have to write reports, and fill out the death certificate...he’d have to explain what went wrong. Explain what he _did_ , that caused it.

Smith sighs heavily and rubs his face with his hand. In the silence of his office, all he can hear is the sound of his own breathing. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His stomach twists into uncomfortable knots.

It’s the first time one of his patients has died on the operating table. It's the first time someone's died under his knife, and there's nothing he can do to change that. He's known that this could happen, and mentally prepared for it, but it doesn't compare to the feeling of it actually occurring.

Smith was good at what he studied. He’d been to med school, he’d done his residency, and he had a good job here as a surgeon. He was so confident in his abilities, before this- he was so confident that he’d do some good in the world, save someone’s life, and make it better. He _had_ done that, here.

But now…

Now, his abilities aren’t enough anymore. One night was all it took for him to lose confidence in himself.

Smith bites his lip, trying to reel back the feelings now threatening to surface. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, until it hurts, and spends a long few moments trying to get his breathing back in order.

Smith thinks himself a murderer, even though he knows that's illogical. He thinks it can't be right; it can't be fair. He never wanted to decide someone's future in a split second, but he has. There's no turning back. The line has been crossed.

He can’t say he’s been successful all the time- no one is- and he can’t say he didn’t try his damnedest to save them, either. The chance of a patient dying in surgery is rare these days, but Smith feels like he could have done something _more_ -

He can’t stop thinking about what went wrong. He could have fixed it, he could have stopped the bleeding sooner, he could have done _something, anything_ -

If he had more time, he might have been able to save them-

Fucking _dammit…_ he can’t deal with this. He can’t keep seeing what he’s done being rewound and played again behind his eyes, like a subliminal VHS tape.

Smith wrenches his desk drawer open with shaking hands and pushes the files to the front, grabbing the bottle of whiskey stashed in the back. It was gifted by his colleagues on his birthday, and consequently forgotten for a time in his desk drawer. He’d never taken it home. Now seemed like a good time as any to open it. Though it was less of celebration than it was a dirge.

God, does he need somebody right now.

Smith wedges the bottle in the crook of his arm, and leaves his office. He locks the door behind him, and takes the back staircase all the way down to the basement, avoiding any night nurses or custodians, or anyone who would see him like this. He’s a mirror of the man he'd been earlier today, and he knows he looks like he's been shattered.

He doesn’t care how he looks. Right now, it doesn’t matter. He just needs to find Trott.

Trott, who works at the same hospital as an autopsy technician and forensic examiner. Trott, who is his confidant, friend, and the closest person he has in his life. They’d accomplished so much together. When they moved here, it was a chance at a new start. They were fresh out of med school, and about to begin their residency. Everything felt like a reason to celebrate. His career, and moving in with Trott, felt like the right choice. And Trott had finally, _finally_ said he was willing to give more than friendship a chance.

Smith needs that constant, when everything feels like it’s been shaken. Just like he admitted to Trott after med school that he needed him in his life, no matter what that meant, he needed to admit that he wasn’t okay in the slightest after today’s events. And like Trott had been there then, he’d be here for Smith now.

Smith needs that comfort- and no one else could do that feeling justice.

When he walks into the county morgue in the basement of the hospital, it’s cold and abandoned. Trott is mysteriously absent. There's a covered body on the far table, and Smith’s eyes are involuntarily drawn to it as he crosses the room towards Trott's office.

His feet shuffle to a stop when he hears voices.

He can hear Trott through his closed office door- the offices are interconnected by a meeting room on the other side, and Brindley's voice trickles through, too.

Brindley complains about paperwork and orders Trott to call the county police department for him about evidence collection, and call the local funeral homes to tell them when they can pick up the bodies.

"I've got a body awaiting an autopsy, yet, I don't have time to-" Trott protests.

"I don't care if you haven’t gotten _your_ work completed yet. It's just that fuck who died in surgery this afternoon isn't it? Label it accidental and move on. These phone calls have to be made before work ends tonight, and I want those files on my desk tomorrow morning. Eight am sharp, or it's _your_ salary I'm cutting."

The conversation ends abruptly. Smith waits for the inevitable door slam, but it never comes. He hears footsteps, and then the sound of Trott's voice carries again as he makes the phone calls Brindley requested.

_Damn_ Brindley and his cold, uncaring ruthlessness. He can hear the weariness and anger in Trott’s tone, and it makes him bitter.

But Smith pays more attention to the sound of his heart beating in his chest than Trott on the phone. He looks back at the body in the room. His feet move towards it regardless of his own accord. There's a sickening feeling rising in his gut.

A white sheet covers the body, and Smith’s shaking hand pulls the front back.

It's his patient who died hours earlier. Pale. Lifeless. Feet dangling off the end of the autopsy table. The longer Smith stares, the more he wants to gag, and his lunch threatens to come up again. He yanks the fabric back into place and stumbles backwards. The back of his legs clang into the empty metal table behind him. _You should be wearing gloves_ , the doctor in him says. _It doesn't matter, he's fucking dead_ , the realist in him retorts back.

Smith hops onto the other table. He unscrews the cap off his whiskey. His bottom lip trembles, and he bites down on it again, trying to keep himself together. Trott's making phone calls, so he has to be quiet, but he wants to scream.

All he can picture is his patient on the operating table, not the covered body before him. It's as if the sheet is see-through. His mind repeats the blood pooling into their body cavity, the heat of it beneath his hands and the way it clings to him, even after the nurses pull him away. The frantic lines on the monitor that went flat. The way their body lies so still when all is done.

They ended up here because of him.

Smith knows he's caused this. And nothing, _nothing_ in the world can undo that mistake.

He drops the cap on the floor and raises the bottle to his lips.

 

Time passes. Long enough that Smith knows he’s drunk off his ass, swaying where he sits. He clings to the table beneath him with his free hand for a sense of stability. He takes swig after swig straight from the bottle. Whether his vision is impeded only from inebriation or tears alone, he can’t tell.

At some point later, Trott comes back from his office on the side of the room, where he was taking his phone call. "Smith?" he calls out, “I thought you were Jones, knocking around back here.”

Smith slowly meets his eyes, bottle in hand, eyes watery.

"Oh, sunshine," Trott sighs and crosses the room.

Trott already knows what happened, because his reports state the time and cause of death. He only verifies the cases of those who died in surgery. Hence why Brindley just wanted him to write off Smith’s patient’s cause of death. Because the reason they’re dead is sitting right across from them.

When Trott reaches Smith, the doctor hugs him, wrapping his arms around Trott and breaking down crying at last.

Trott just manages to catch the whiskey as it slips from Smith’s grasp. He sets the bottle down on the table with a metallic clang, and caresses his hand through Smith’s hair and down the nape of his neck.

“I’ve got you...shhh…”

Smith buries his face in Trott's shoulder and sobs. His body shakes with each staggered breath but Trott only holds him tighter.

“I know...I know...I’ve got you, Smith.”

Trott reeks of formaldehyde and rubber, but Smith doesn't let go until his eyes are raw from crying. He loosens his iron grip on Trott’s lab coat.

Trott holds him close. "It's not your fault, sunshine. It's not your fault," he shushes him, rubbing his back.

“Trott…” Smith voice breaks when he speaks.

“Shhh. It’s not your fault, Smith.” Trott shifts his head on Smith’s shoulder, and Smith feels the frame of Trott’s glasses press into his skin. "You need to go home and get some rest. Did they debrief you? You should take some time..."

"All I want is you right now," Smith states. He holds onto Trott’s lab coat like a child to his parents' coattails, terrified again that Trott’s going to let go. Trott always ends up letting go, especially when he has to work overtime on Smith's days off. Smith will lay around on their couch on Saturday mornings, watching kids cartoons like Dragon’s Lair and Mr. T. Wishing Trott was in the kitchen making coffee and pancakes. Wanting more than anything just to hold him.

Smith misses him even when they're together. There's never enough time to just _be_ with each other. There's always work.

Regardless, work use to be a safe haven for him. He knew he’d see Trott at work, even if he didn’t see him much at home. This job wasn’t a walk in the park, but it was easy enough when he knew what to expect.

It doesn’t feel so easy anymore.

Smith can’t lift his head and see the body across from him. He can’t go home alone.

“Trott...please,” he moans.

"I work until at least eight, Smith, you know that." Trott chides softly, as if reading his thoughts. "And I’ll have to stay later to finish this autopsy. You know you can't be in here...if Brindley catches you he'll have a field day. You shouldn't have to see this..."

Trott works too much overtime.

So much time, and does any of it matter?

The body across from them used to be a person- in Smith’s eyes, they’re still his patient, but their time’s come up. It’s all Smith’s fault. If he could turn back the clock on tonight, he’d fix things.

He knows he can’t, but he desperately wishes he could.

“Trott…” Smith moans sadly.

Trott shushes him again.

"It's my _fault_ , Trott-"

"Shhh, no it's not, sunshine. It's not. You did everything you could. These things happen, you know that." Trott’s hand rubs warmly up and down his back.

Smith hiccups into the lapels of Trott's lab coat. "Fuck. _Fuck_ , what have I _done_." He shudders.

"Your _job_ , Smith. You did your job.”

Smith rubs his face into Trott’s coat. “I-I’m...I-” He sniffles quietly.

“Smith. Smith, look at me. _Look at me_ , sunshine..." Trott gets Smith to lift his head, loosely tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck. He turns Smith away from the sight before him and meets his eyes. "You did everything you could. You did everything you _possibly could_. This isn't your fault.”

Smith tries to stare into Trott’s eyes, but he sees the reflection in his glasses, instead- the body on the table. He squeezes his eyes shut, stifling another sob in his throat.

Trott wipes away Smith’s tears with his coat sleeve. “Smith, sunshine- you need to go home. You're exhausted, you’re definitely drunk, and you must be hungry. Have you eaten dinner? Anything at all?"

"I just-” Smith sighs heavily and lowers his head back to Trott’s neck. “I just want to sleep...”

Trott kisses his temple. "Then go home. Go home, sunshine. Take the bus back,” he murmurs sympathetically, carding his fingers through Smith’s hair. “I'll meet you there when I get done."

 

* * *

 

Trott guides Smith into his office with a hand on his elbow. He spends a half an hour calming Smith down best he can, and sitting with him. He gets him a lukewarm bottle of water from the vending machines, and makes him take two ibuprofen and eat one of the granola bars he keeps in his office and never eats. Smith’s more of a granola person than he is. Trott breaks the bar into little pieces and feeds them to Smith by hand. They’re not supposed to eat in or near the lab, or have anyone who isn’t autopsy personnel around, either. Trott keeps one eye on his office door in case of Brindley, and one eye on Smith.

Smith stares at his feet the entire time, but eats. Afterwards, he leans his head on Trott’s desk.

Trott purses his lips into a thin line at the mess Smith’s making of his paperwork. His eyes land on the bottle of whiskey, and he pushes back his frantic feelings over Smith’s drunkenness at work. He hides the bottle away while Smith has his back turned. He’ll have to sneak it out later. If Brindley finds it, Trott will be written up for sure, and then he can kiss his measly paycheck goodbye. But there’s no way in hell Trott’s letting Smith take that home now.

Trott shoves his Walkman headphones over Smith's ears and shuts him in the office while he does the autopsy. He hopes Smith doesn't hear the sound of snapping bones over Eurythmics.

A couple hours later, when Trott's done and has gotten rid of the body and his bloodstained garb, he tells a sobered-up Smith to take the bus home. Smith goes when he’s able to walk without falling on his face.

Trott doesn’t really keep track of the time. He works on finishing his his duties, but even so, his mind is thinking of Smith. He’d sent him home alone, and despite Smith being more sober, Trott is worried. He’s never seen him like this, ever. He’s never seen him so heartbroken and distraught.

He should have told Smith to call once he was home. Either he hadn't thought to call, or he wasn't home yet, or something was wrong.

This night already felt wrong. Trott doesn't know how to help Smith through this. He doesn't know what to say to make things better. All he’s said is the same thing, and he doesn’t know if it helps. He feels like a broken record.

Trott heaves a sigh. The sooner he can get out of here for tonight, the better. He can go home, take care of Smith, get some food, and sleep.

Until he has to wake up and do the day all over again. Hoo-rah.

Trott sprays down the tables with diluted disinfectant and wipes them clean. He strips out of his gloves, washes his hands twice, and hangs up his lab coat and goggles. He’s lucky that he’s able to clock out before Brindley berates him some more about tomorrow’s files. He’ll have to come in early tomorrow and type everything up on their singular, slow, and sticky typewriter.

After he changes out of his scrubs and into a worn pair of jeans and a mottled calico sweater, he climbs the stairs up to the ground floor, rubbing his eyes. If it was a normal day, he’d still be working. Reports would keep him later, but now he’s leaving half an hour earlier than he normally does. The clock in the entrance hall says it’s already past ten. Fucking hell. Even if he gets to bed at eleven, he’ll still be getting less than six hours of sleep, because he’ll be back here early to finish Brindley’s fucking papers.

Trott waves to the security guard on his way out and pushes through the double doors of the employee entrance. It was pouring down outside the hospital all day. He can hear it from in the basement, because the ceiling at the end of the room always leaks when it rains. The puddle it’s causing in the lab is a safety hazard, but Trott knows if he puts a bucket under it Jones will bumble in and knock it over in his wake. Better to slip and fall and maybe workers compensation will cover it. There’s no way it’s getting fixed.

Trott grumbles to himself about underfunded science facilities. Fuck this job.

The rain has turned into a cold drizzle that the Pacific Northwest is known for. Trott tugs his windbreaker tighter around him and shuffles off towards the bus stop. He doesn’t know if Smith’s caught the bus yet or not. He hopes so.

His breath fogs in the air, and he shivers.The chill nips at his ears. Raindrops pattern down on exposed skin. Trott wipes them off the back of his neck only for more to appear.

When he reaches the bus stop, one of the late buses is pulling away. Trott watches it leave, and wonders if Smith’s gone home already after all. But then he sees the hunched figure under the awning.

“Smith?”

Smith is sitting with his knees pulled to his chest, yellow hood of his all-seasons jacket pulled up over his head. The closer Trott gets, the more distinctly he can hear Smith’s sobbing.

Shit...

“Smith,” Trott tugs on his sleeve. “Come on, sunshine. Let’s get you home.” He wants to question why he’s sitting out here by himself. Did he forget his bus pass? Why has he been sitting alone for an hour?

Trott leads Smith back to the hospital parking lot, holding onto his jacket sleeve and pulling him gently. Smith scuffs his feet along the pavement, but doesn’t resist. His shoulder bumps into Trott’s.

Trott bundles him into their shitty Jeep Grand Wagoneer. The chipped cinnamon red paint and brown panelling is covered in mud from all the times Smith takes it off-roading, “like someone shat Red Hots”. Despite the moniker, their car seems to favor Smith as a driver more often than not. The driver's seat screeches if you hit a pothole, the carpet smells like cream that’s gone bad, and the heating likes to go out when it it’s too damn cold and they need it the most. It’s a relatively “new” used car, but whoever owned it last fucked it up more than what they paid for it.

Smith leans against the passenger side window, hiding his face from Trott’s view. Trott cranks up the heat dial on the dashboard, and sighs in relief at the slow trickle of warm air coming out of the vents. He holds his fingers up for a few moments to warm them, and then reaches across the gearshift to lay a gentle hand on Smith’s knee.

Smith says nothing. The rain taps the windows, blurring their reflections in the glass. Trott rubs his thumb back and forth over Smith’s damp khakis, and drives them home.

The jarring screech of the windshield wipers make time with Smith's muffled sobs. The radio is playing George Michael on low. Normally Smith would be singing. His hands are clenched tightly in his yellow jacket, his knees are pulled to his chest, and his scuffed white Capezio’s are making mud stains on the passenger seat. He’s shaking. Every breath of air he takes is exhaled in broken measures.

Fuck. Trott frowns in concern. He can't berate him to get his feet off the seat. It’s hard to listen to him- he’s never seen Smith cry for this long. Smith was the kind of person who got his emotions out in one burst, and then was fine.

But Smith’s nowhere _near_ fine, not like this. Trott wants to pull off the road and take him into his arms, but if he does that they’ll never get home. He isn’t sure when the tears will stop. He’s hoping that getting some food in Smith, and a decent night’s rest, will help.

Smith is usually the one who carpools a tired Trott back to their shared apartment in the city. But not this time. Trott takes Smith home, and the minute they arrive, guides him into the shower. He gets Smith’s pajamas and a towel and sets them on the sink for when he’s done. Smith’s still hiccuping quietly past the shower curtain.

Trott winces sympathetically and walks into the kitchenette of their apartment to order take-out. He has the take-out number memorized, but he still stares at the menu while he orders. The folded paper dangles beneath the “Frankie Says Relax” magnet stuck to the fridge. Smith’s gasping crying noises can still be heard on the either side of the wall.

When Trott hangs up the phone into the receiver on the counter, Smith is out of the shower, curled into a ball on the couch. Trott isn’t sure if he actually cleaned up, but his hair is damp. He joins him in the living room to wait for the food to arrive, turning on the tv to something mindless. Trott takes the knitted blanket off the little recliner they have in the corner and tucks it around Smith, sitting down and rubbing Smith’s back.

The quiet burble of the tv doesn’t cover up Smith’s shaky breaths and there’s just infomercials on at this hour, but it doesn’t matter. It’s better than hearing gritty noir or B movies.

There used to be things on to watch when they were staying up late cramming for exams in med school. Now there were endless repeats of "but wait, there's more!"; hair and workout products, the amazing chia pet, greatest hits cassette deals, and self help books.

Trott remembers there being movie channels a few years back, that played old black-and-white horror films during the early hours of the morning. In his and Smith’s varied residency schedule, they would often be on call from eleven pm to five am. They spent a lot of waiting time in the apartment, watching films and eating ice cream. And kissing. Among other things. He can distinctly recall being in the middle of half-clothed activities and cursing at the sound of their pagers going off.

The varied memories make Trott smile, however briefly. He heaves a sigh. He’s never home these days. Moments like this, sitting on the couch together after work, are rare. Trott works so late and so much that he and Smith never get dinner together, and never go to bed at the same time. It’s nothing like when they moved here. They didn’t have what they used to, and sometimes Trott wonders when it’ll end. When Smith will pack up and leave for greener, better pastures. Away from Trott, and away from the rainy, cold Pacific Northwest.

But then again, Smith is the one that really loves it here. Not Trott.

Smith sniffles into the couch cushions beside him. Trott continues to rub his back soothingly, not trying to look at him directly but not trying to ignore him either. He can’t stand to watch him falling apart like this. He wants to give him privacy but he doesn’t want to leave him alone. Trott doesn’t know what to do with himself. There’s a tightness in his chest he can’t shake loose, and it keeps winding tighter and tighter the longer Smith’s sadness permeates.

The pizza arrives quickly. Smith hardly touches any of it.

Trott nudges him. “Come on, another bite. You gotta eat, mate.” It feels backwards that Trott is the one pestering Smith to eat, now.

He puts him to bed when they’re done. Smith takes the blanket from the couch with him as he drags his feet down the hall. Trott pulls the comforter up to his chin and tucks him in before he joins him.

Smith burrows into his side, tears still trekking silently down his face.

Trott doesn’t comment. He’s already said everything he could. He reads aloud from his mystery novel, and cards his fingers through Smith’s hair until he falls asleep.

“‘The flashlight shook in his grip, bouncing the beam of light off the concrete walls of the abandoned tunnel. He didn’t know what to expect when he got to the end. He was too nervous to look back over his shoulder at where he came from. The path forwards and backwards was steeped in darkness, and he only knew what he was looking for from old photographs…’”

When Trott puts his book aside, Smith is asleep, but looks exhausted. Trott doesn’t know how to make any of this easier for him; he doesn’t know how to help him through it. They’d all taken grief-counseling classes in med school, sure. But Trott was used to dealing with the dead. Smith wasn’t.

Trott is good at the science side of things, not emotions and grief. He can read the guilt on Smith’s face, and it makes him heartsick.

Accidents happen all the time- Smith didn’t intend this outcome. He’ll be alright, but Trott didn’t expect the emotional fallout to be like this. Smith wasn’t the kind of person who stewed in his emotions for this long. It wasn’t unusual to see him cry, but this...going on for hours…

Trott knows the human body can produce a large amount of tears, but this is the first time he’s seen someone he cares about cry for this long. It’s heartbreaking.

He’d have to get some fluids in Smith in the morning. Did he have time to make pancakes before dashing off to work? Smith would appreciate the sentiment.

Trott rolls over to his alarm clock next to the bed and sets the time earlier. It’s one am now, so it looks like he’ll be getting four hours of sleep tonight. He doesn’t want to leave Smith home alone, but there’s no way in hell Brindley will let him call in sick. Trott has only called in sick once, and Smith did it for him when he came down with food poisoning. Trott weakly fought Smith over the phone, yanking at the cord, but Smith pulled it from his grasp. "You don't need to be puking your guts out while removing someone else's," Smith had replied, wincing at Trott’s retreating back while he stumbled to the bathroom again.

In response to Trott’s time off, Brindley had him work overtime the rest of the week, as well as doing most of Jones' tasks that the other med tech didn't feel like completing. Because Brindley’s an asshole.

So, if Trott wants to make Smith pancakes _and_ get to work on time to finish his reports, he’ll have to get up earlier.

Trott sighs, takes off his glasses and wristwatch, and turns off the light. He curls around a sleeping Smith, and kisses his tear-stained cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, sunshine.” Trott whispers, holding Smith’s hand through the sheets. “I’m so sorry...”

 

* * *

 

Trott sets a plate of pancakes and a little mug with maple syrup onto the side table next to the bed. The time reads five-fifteen on the bedside clock, and Trott’s feeling it. He rubs his eyes behind his glasses, muffling a yawn and reaching out for Smith’s sleeping form.

“Smith.” He pets his hair until his head shifts in the pillows. “I made pancakes.”

“Pancakes? You had time?” Smith says, half asleep yet. His voice is muffled in the sheets.

“Well, no.” Trott pulls his hand away, looking at his watch before chiding himself. He looked at the clock already. It’s five-sixteen, now. “I have to get going if I'm going to get Brindley's paperwork done on time.”

“Trott, it's not even _sunrise_ ,” Smith whines. His breath hitches and for a moment Trott thinks he goes to start sobbing again, but he doesn’t.

“I know, sunshine, I know,” he says sympathetically. The words taste wrong and meaningless because of how often he’s said them. He’s already hating the apology he’ll have to give, knowing it’s worth nothing. “I'd stay home if I could-”

“Fuck.” Smith snaps. His hand fishes through the twisted sheets and grasps onto Trott's tightly. His skin is clammy. “Trott, please don't leave me,” he pleads.

Trott's chest tightens. He swallows thickly, unable to speak.

“Trott...please, I-” Smith sighs heavily. He noses his face into the pillows, keeping his eyes from Trott’s. “I know you can't stay. _I know_ , but I wish…” His hand slowly loosens from Trott's, and Trott aches inside when it falls back to the sheets.

_You don't have to do this, Smith,_ he thinks, watching Smith curl into himself again. He's so hurt. Not for the first time, Trott curses Brindley and curses himself and curses everything he's ever taken for granted. Smith deserves better than someone like himself, really. He deserves someone who can give him the support he needs. Trott reaches out for Smith and rubs his shoulder in what he hopes is a show of comfort. He knows it’s not good enough, but…fuck.

“Come on, Smith…” Trott chides him gently, reaching for his shoulder and guiding him to sit up. “How about you eat something? Before the pancakes get cold.” He hands Smith the plate, catching the fork before it falls, and tucking the blanket around his shoulders again.

"You put M&Ms in these." Smith snorts. He sniffles and scrubs his face with a hand. He doesn't meet Trott's eyes.

Trott shrugs his shoulders and smiles. "We didn't have chocolate chips."

Smith laughs shortly. The humor is barely there. "Thank you." he whispers

Trott brushes his fringe out of his eyes the best he can without seeing them, and slowly stands up.

"I've got to go." The words pain him to say. He kisses Smith's temple and turns away. "I'll call you at lunch, okay?" He throws the question over his shoulder as he strides from the room, running before he can let everything get to him. On a coatrack by the door is his and Smith's jackets. Trott waits for the quiet "okay..." in reply before he puts on his and heads out the door.

 

Trott drives into work, shivering in the morning chill, windows rolled down to dispel the fogged-up interior. The car heater isn’t cooperating today, so he foregoes it. He clenches his hands around the steering wheel to keep the blood circulating. There was probably an extra pair of gloves in the glovebox, but he doesn’t have time to check. It’s sunrise, and the sky is bright, if gray. The hospital looks dull on the horizon, gray concrete backdropped in gray clouds that even the rising sun can’t penetrate. The coming summer means more sunlight than usual, but it never reaches Trott where he works in the basement. Not with his hours.

Trott parks as soon as he arrives, and heads in through the employee entrance. The weariness and lack of sleep seems to drag him down, shove him into the morgue like a body to the grave. The labs are empty and silent, which isn’t usual for this time of the morning. Brindley and Jones were never in this early. Trott sighs to himself, turning on the little desk lamp by the typewriter in their office. He was going to need more than his singular cup of coffee to get through the rest of the workday, but finishing Brindley’s damned reports took precedence. Regardless if he is thinking of Smith the entire time.

 

Trott calls the apartment at lunch, but doesn't get an answer. He hopes Smith's just sleeping and didn't hear the phone ring, but leaves him a message anyway. Smith would call him back if he asked him to, right? But Trott would probably miss his call, being too busy working. “Hey, Smith. You asleep? Have you eaten anything since breakfast? Let me know what you want me to pick up for dinner. It’ll be late, but, if there’s something you want…” Trott trails off, momentarily staring at the light bulb flickering outside the offices. Brindley probably wanted him to fix that. He doesn’t know if they even have a light bulb for that in the storage closet. Probably not.

He clears his throat and continues talking, looking back to the phone and curling the spiral cord around his finger. “Anyway, Smith. There should be leftover pizza in the fridge if you get hungry. And there's cereal, if you want that. Eggs might be good yet. Probably some snacks in the cupboard. I have to get back to work, but...I’ll be home when I can, alright? Get some rest.”

Trott hangs up. He rubs his eyes behind his glasses and takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the slogging through the rest of the autopsies of the day. He wishes he could have heard Smith’s voice. Trott’s paperwork is still in disarray from last night. Leaning his head on his desk and napping sounds great right now…

Heavy footfalls make him shoot his eyes towards the door. Jones trips through, cursing as his neon purple shoelaces catch on a splintered part of the doorframe. The sounds of Rick Astley blast from his Walkman headphones. He rights himself and sneers at Trott, who’s leaning his face on a hand. “Sleeping on the job?”

“No,” Trott straightens his posture and gives him a look, “and if you even dare to joke about it around Brindley…”

Jones laughs, a big chortle that makes his shoulders shake. “Brindley can stand a joke, if he ignores the stick up his ass.”

“Not with me.”

Jones hums. He scratches his stomach absentmindedly, pulling the stretched fabric of his forever-bloodstained lab coat taut as he stumbles to their shared filing cabinet. Trott watches him root around for some papers. He swears Jones’ coat must be velcroed on the inside. There’s no way the buttons have held this long.

Jones pushes file folders around and doubles over, coughing at the plume of black dust that rises from it. His greasy blonde braid sticks to the back of his sweat-dampened clothing. “Why’re you hiding a bottle of whiskey in the filing cabinet?” he gasps out.

“...What?” Trott pales as Jones yanks the bottle from it’s hiding place and waggles the glass out in front of him. The liquor sloshes inside, making Trott’s stomach churn unpleasantly.

“I know it’s not _mine_.” Jones sing-songs smugly.

“Well, it’s not mine, either-” Trott protests.

“Yeah, sure. You know, I do have to say I’m shocked _Dr. Chris Trott_ would keep liquor on the premises.”

“It’s not _mine_ , just- look-” Trott scowls, panicking, “don’t tell Brindley, please. I swear, I was keeping it for a friend, and I didn’t-”

“Hah! Yeah, I’ve used that excuse before, myself.” Jones hefts the bottle in his grip.

“Please. _Don’t tell him_.” Trott reiterates slowly. He stands and holds his hand out for the bottle.

Jones curls it closer to his body. It feels like a game of keep away, and there’s no chance Trott will win. He’s shorter and thinner, and has no sense of leeway with Brindley whatsoever. Not like Jones does.

“What’s in it for me?” Jones smirks.

Trott sighs through his teeth. He lowers his arm to his side again. “How about the whiskey itself? Have the rest, and keep your mouth shut,” he warns.

“Hm…” The clumsy pathologist thinks for a moment. “Alright. It _is_ good quality. I’ll be enjoying that on my time off this weekend!” He gleefully puts the bottle back and slams the cabinet shut.

“Time off? I thought we split up the next batch of evidence work this weekend. All of us.” Trott frowns.

“Didn’t you check the schedule? Brindley swapped our hours around. Looks like you’ll be working overtime tomorrow.” Jones grins and salutes him on his way out the door to the labs. “Good luck!”

Fuck.

Trott looks down at his desk, seeing a crumpled new schedule right on top. How had he missed this? Instead of “normal hours” and a Sunday off, he’s got overtime, and extended hours on Sunday.

_Fuck._ Fuck Brindley, and fuck this job, and just- _fuck_.

Trott swallows down the anxiety that threatens to sink into him. His heart starts pounding and he tries to keep his breathing even.

This is fine.

It’s not like you do anything on weekends, anyway.

You need the extra money, besides, what with Smith taking time off.

It’s fine.

Trott runs a shaky hand through his hair, looking at the filing cabinet forlornly like it had been the judge’s seat, ready to sentence him. He was so close to having his wages cut, or being fired, had Jones decided not to spare him. And that whiskey had been Smith’s, a gift, and Trott had gotten it taken away. He should have remembered to take it home last night. He should have checked his desk better this morning, and known his schedule had been fucked up. He should have-

Trott sighs and closes his eyes for a moment.

“He should have” a lot of things.

It felt like nothing he chose to do was ever enough. Not for his boss, not for his parents, not for Smith. He was stuck in a base-level job, working his ass off, and getting nothing in return. He had no time to himself, or with Smith, and all he ever felt when he did have it was guilt. The discrepancy of the effort versus the payout means that Trott feels undeserving. It makes everything ultimately useless, in the end.

Trott takes his lab coat off the back of his desk chair and puts it on again. He doesn’t want to work. He wants to go home. But the dead aren’t going to dissect themselves, and nobody’s going to do it right but him.

 

He gets home around nine-thirty, nine-forty-five, which is pretty reasonable. But with the overtime to come, well, it doesn’t matter much. Some cop show is playing on the tv when Trott walks through the door, bag of takeout on his arm.

“Hey.” Smith greets him from where he’s curled up on the couch. He doesn’t look like he’s been crying, thankfully. He looks tired, even after sleeping so much, and, but he’s dressed in sweatpants and an old NYU sweatshirt, and looks comfortable.

“Hey, sunshine.” Trott says with a weary smile. He toes off his shoes and hangs up his jacket. After his long day, there’s nothing he wants more than to curl up with Smith on the couch. Seeing that old sweatshirt makes him think of Smith with his arm around him in pictures- all black and white polaroids of college that Trott keeps in a box, of themselves and fellow pre-med students getting hot coffee and cold pints of beer, building snow demons outside their frigid New York dormitories; waiting for the shuttle bus to take them downtown. If Trott wanted a reminder of the endless schooling he went through to get to his shitty job, he’d tack them up somewhere.

“Did you eat?” Trott asks. He slides the bag of hot food off his wrist and crosses the room towards the tiny kitchenette.

“Yeah. I had leftover pizza. I got your call, too.” Smith is soft spoken as he sits up on the couch, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“That’s good. I brought thai for dinner.” Trott sets the bag down on the counter and turns to the fridge. The jars in the door rattle as Trott pulls it open to get a couple bottles of Coke. He hip-checks the door closed, and sets the bottles next to the food on the counter.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Smith get up and walk towards him, blanket in tow. The fabric drags across the linoleum.

Smith slides up behind Trott and wraps his arms around his middle, leaning on him just enough that Trott has to catch himself before he presses uncomfortably into the countertop edge.

“I'm glad you're home.” Smith murmurs, leaning his chin on Trott's shoulder.

Trott turns in his arms. and holds Smith close, stealing his hands under the blanket and accidentally knocking it off Smith’s shoulders in the process. “Me too, sunshine. Me too,” he sighs.

Smith kisses him. His lips are soft and his hands are warm. The last of the underlying nerves of the day evaporates from Trott's mind. No fucking work issues, no fucking overtime, no fucking paperwork or death.

Just Smith. Smith's lips on his. Trott threads his fingers through Smith’s hair, kissing him fervently, feeling hot under his skin from the way they’re pressed up against the counter.

Fuck, how long had it been since they'd been able to kiss like this? Since they could kiss without any pager waiting to go off; kiss without having to dash off to work...

Trott’s stomach growling interrupts them, and they reluctantly break apart. Trott lowers his arms.

“Have you eaten at all today, Trott?” Smith frowns.

“I’m eating now.” Trott turns out of Smith’s hold, and starts taking the food containers he bought out of the bag and opening them.

“ _Trott_.” Smith sighs in exasperation. “Well...at least you _are_ eating now. Then you can have _me_ for dessert.” He grins and playfully bumps his shoulder against Trott’s, reaching past him for the food.

Trott snorts and rolls his eyes at Smith’s cheeky smile. There's still something off about Smith's expression, something holding him back, but it's good to hear him joke. It makes Trott feel like maybe he's doing something right. Maybe.

Smith inspects the food with an appreciative hum. “Fancy thai takeout?” he asks in disbelief. “We hardly ever get this.”

“The pricy kind, but the tasty kind.” Trott agrees, handing him a fork with a smile. “My treat.”

“You’re the best, you twat. Come sit on the couch with me.” Smith kisses his temple and carries their dishes to the living room, kicking the blanket across the floor as he does. Spicy chicken pad thai for Smith, and sukiyaki for Trott, with pork satay and crispy rolls to share. If they ever eat together, it’s never at a dining table. Unless you count lunch at work.

Trott brings the drinks over, and they sit down and eat. The weird tension leftover from this morning loosens. The ten o’clock news flashes the world’s problems, and for once they feel a little bit less concerned about themselves. For a little while, they can just be glad to have each other around.

 

The two of them lay in bed later that night, meal long finished, post-making out on the couch for a little as the CBS Late Night tv-block played episodes of Magnum, P.I. and Night Heat. Trott can feel the dampness in his hair yet from his shower. He hates going to bed with wet hair, but their hairdryer is slow and weak, and he doesn’t want to spend time messing with it when he could have this instead.

Smith’s legs are tangled up with his in the sheets. They’re holding hands, and Smith rubs his thumb back and forth across Trott’s knuckles. Outside, city traffic occasionally spikes into choirs of honking, and the wind whistles lowly through the cracks in the walls.

“I missed you today,” Smith whispers.

_I miss you every day_ , Trott hears him say. He kisses him instead of responding, and leans their foreheads together when they part. Their faces are half hidden by pillows.

Smith curls his his free hand around Trott’s waist, rubbing up and down his spine. “I think I’m gonna take some time off,” he sighs.

“That’ll be good for you, sunshine.” Trott agrees.

“I know we need the income, but-”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s okay.” He brushes hair out of Smith’s grief-hiding eyes.

“I think...I think I might go camping this weekend. Get out of the city, and get some fresh air. Clear my head.”

Trott nods. He opens his mouth to tell him to be safe, plan his route, and pack plenty of food and water. Smith interrupts him.

“Do you want to go with me?”

Trott closes his mouth and swallows thickly. He doesn’t say anything for such a long time that Smith lifts his head to look at him.

In the dark, Smith’s eyes look even more pleading. Trott hates that he has to say no. Camping isn’t his thing, anyway, but he hates that he doesn’t have the option. He knows it would make Smith happy, if he could go with him.

“I have to work.” He manages to say at last.

“Oh.” Smith frowns. “I didn’t know your schedule changed…”

“Neither did I. Found out after I called you.” Trott bites back the anger. Fuck Brindley. Fuck his job. Fuck.

Smith kisses him again to make up for it, and lays back down. “That’s alright. Some other time.” He muffles a loud breath into the sheets.

Trott’s more convinced that it was a sigh than a yawn. He shifts closer, tucking his head under Smith’s chin and trapping their hands between them. Smith holds him in the shadows of their bedroom at night, and Trott keeps his apologies to himself.

 

* * *

 

Smith carries the patient’s death with him, no matter how much he tries to shake it. He takes a week off, a month off, and it's no use. He can’t get it out of his head. He can’t take back what he’s done. It haunts him, and he lives with it. He has to live with it- it was an inevitability he knew someday he’d have to face. It’s part of being a doctor. So he puts on a bright face again. Or tries to.

No matter how it seems on the outside, internally, he still struggles. He keeps having dreams of it. The same dead body, or others, people he cares about, showing up on his operating table. Every time, he’s powerless to stop their deaths from happening. Smith doesn’t think the dreams would be so bothersome, if only he could change it. His subconscious seems to like rubbing the failure in his face. It doesn’t help.

What’s worse, the apartment is empty. Trott starts pulling double shifts and overtime to make up for one less paycheck coming in, and Smith feels terrible about it. He wakes up alone and he goes to bed alone and it’s worse than the way it was before.

All Smith does in the apartment is lay around feeling bored and miserable. He goes back to work because he needs something to do. They have bills to pay. He can’t stop being a doctor.

It was only one death. No one blames him, save himself.

He switches out of doing specific surgeries to working in the ER, because lives are on the line every day there, not just on him personally. His supervisor was sad to see him go, but he understood, and put in a good word for his department transfer. “Good luck, lad,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder with a meaty hand. Smith feels a spark of certainty again, and thanks the man for all he’s done to see him succeed. There were worse supervisors to have in this hospital. Smith had been lucky.

In the ER, there’s a bigger divide between fixable things and unfixable things. It’s more of a team operation than working single surgeries was, and Smith doesn’t feel so alone in the deaths anymore. His new supervisor, a thin, pretty, and brilliant female surgeon, immediately takes him under his wing, even though she’s not much older than he is, and he hasn’t been a fledgling doctor for a while. They sit in Smith’s new office after their shift, talking, sharing a glass of the whiskey Trott had bought him to congratulate him on the new position. Smith’s new supervisor talked about her first patient death, and how she coped, and how she processes all the death they see in the trauma wing of the hospital.

“It’s one of the hard parts of our job,” she said, tipping back the glass and swallowing the remainder, “but I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t see the worth in doing everything else I can to help.”

Smith nods, agreeing and beginning to see that again in his own work.

Everyone has a part to play- a single mistake doesn’t make him any less. He’s not at fault when things like this happen. It’s merely circumstance.

 

* * *

 

Ross taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives, humming a Michael Jackson song to himself. The sun is starting to dip over the city’s horizon. Gold and orange light shines through the clouds and onto the glass and metal skyscrapers. He loves doing his patrol route in the evening. Despite the spike of crime that occurs during rush hour and in the late night, Ross loves being able to watch the sun set. The city comes to life with lights and sound, and the shadows shift across the mountains in the distance. It’s a gorgeous combination of urban and rural development. Not to mention there are ample coffee and donut shops, and plenty of green space to walk his dog through the park.

People don’t like the rain all the time, but that’s just the weather. Everyone complains about the weather no matter where you’re from. Maybe he’s biased. He did grow up a few cities over, after all.

Ross’ police radio flickers to life, and the buzz of the dispatcher comes through. Being a cop in the inter-city means a lot of crime issues come his way. Mostly drug-related issues, and the worst of them are handled by their K9 Narcotics team, but as a cop, he’s supposed to be ready to handle anything.

“Ten forty-eight, at the third and fourth blocks of West Haven Avenue. Ten ninety-nine Alpha, warrant for arrest, on a ten thirty-two,” the dispatcher’s voice sounds out of the radio speaker, “Suspect is a six foot white male, wearing blue jeans and a red t-shirt. Possible ten seventy-seven due to previous narcotics infractions. At least one other suspect armed and dangerous in the area, ten zero.”

Another officer is requesting backup with two armed suspects. Ross flips his sirens on and radios back. “Ten four, Officer Ross Hornby of precinct twelve eight, en route. Ten sixty-nine.”

When Ross arrives at the scene, other officers surround a used car lot where the suspects are hiding. He unholsters his handgun from his belt and advances with a few others, crouching behind the cars and sweeping the spaces between. A group of police have one of the suspects near the edge of the parking lot.

“Drop the weapon!” they shout. “Drop the weapon, and get down on the ground!”

Ross’ eyes dart across the tarmac as he crouches down. One suspect is out of sight; another cornered by cops ahead of them. They need to keep their guard up- he could be hiding under the cars-

“On your right, your right!” Someone behind him shouts. “Get do-”

Several loud bangs echo across the tarmac. As Ross ducks, his side erupts in pain like he’s been hit with a sledgehammer.

“Second suspect on the right!”

Ross didn’t see the other guy, but now his team has spotted him, and gunfire is exchanged back. He should have looked. He should have checked. They knew-

“Drop the weapon!” Someone screams at the second suspect.

“Eleven thirty-two! Shots fired, shots fired! Four forty-four!”

Ross sinks to his hands and knees, confused and disoriented. His vision wavers as the pain burns through him. He tries to look down at himself. His gun slips out of his grasp.

Gunshots whizz through the air overhead, and officers rush past him, chasing the other suspect on foot a short distance as he tries to escape.

He's been shot. He can't believe he's been shot...

Ross’ eyes swim with pain. He clutches at his side, but it only makes it hurts worse. He crumples onto the asphalt beneath him. His bulletproof vest should have protected him- why didn’t it? All he can think about right now is how much it _hurts_.

The officers who stay back radio in to dispatch. “Officer down- ten fifty-two, ambulance needed-”

Around him, he hears other police officers shouting as they disarm and detain the suspects. Ross can see blood on his hand where he touched his side. Someone comes up to him and rolls him onto his back.

It’s Hulmes, a fellow officer in his precinct. “I’ve got you, mate. You’re going to be alright.” He pulls his own shirt off over his head and puts pressure on Ross’ gunshot wound to stop the bleeding.

Ross’ eyes roll momentarily at the shockwave of agony the action causes. He groans through his teeth and coughs harshly.

“Stay with me, Hornby,” Hulmes warns.

“What happened?”” He grumbles. On second he was upright and the next, the sky way his ceiling.

“You’ve been shot. You’re going to be alright, Hornby, we’re gonna get you out of here safely.”

Ross tries to lift his head, but it hurts too much. “I should have looked, and I didn't-” he finds himself saying, “I'm sorry. I don’t know what happened, but-”

“It's not your fault, mate, you got shot. It's only the suspect's fault. They're the ones who did it.”

Hulmes has another officer remove Ross’ belt and weapons. Someone sticks something soft under his head, and then lifts his feet up off the ground. He can hear the sound of approaching sirens.

“Can I get a blanket over here, or something?” Hulmes asks a person out of Ross’ line of sight. “Hang in there, mate. Help’s on the way. You’re going to be alright,” he reassures him again. He keeps a steady pressure on Ross’ gunshot wound as his glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. His wispy brown fringe sticks to his forehead. Another officer brings the blanket and drapes it over Ross’ torso.

Flashing colors light up the sky as the paramedics arrive. Ross stares at the world around him, in pain and mystified shock. Faces seem indistinct. Hulmes is the only one he can put a name to right now.

“Officer Hornby?” Doctors introduce themselves, shining lights in his eyes. He doesn’t have the mental capacity to follow what their saying. His head lolls a little on the asphalt, and they strap an oxygen mask over his face.

“We’re going to transfer him up off the ground,” The EMT orders to the surrounding officers, “On three. One, two, _three_ -” They lift him up onto a gurney and load him into the back of the ambulance.

Ross sees Hulmes’ concerned face before they shut the doors. One of the nurses is talking about him, something about his vitals and giving him something for the pain. Or maybe they’re talking to him. He isn’t sure.

Everything hurts, and the chaos around him is dulling with his consciousness.

He can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

 

* * *

 

Gunshot wounds are more often than not, fatal. With the crime level in the city and the drug warfare, Smith sees too many people, young and old, die from gun violence. This next patient shouldn’t be new.

But this one’s a cop.

Already his fellow trauma surgeons are dividing patients- the ones that can wait, the ones that can’t, and the ones that don’t have any time left. Working in the trauma wing of the hospital is near-constant rapid-fire decision making.

Everyone’s going to die someday, but here, Smith and his team pick and choose and do what they can.

It’s more about luck than anything. Some things just can’t be done or fixed. Most of the time, it’s easy to accept.

But today, the life of a cop is in his hands. It’s the first time he’ll have a police officer go under his knife. In the city, cops are heroes and crime-fighters, looked up to just like doctors are. Smith knows there’s a lot of weight and responsibility that comes with being a cop. And much higher risks than being a doctor, when you put your life on the line for other people.

He watches the trauma nurses roll his gurney into the surgical suite, and transfer his next patient onto the operating table. The anesthesiologist takes her position on the left, reaffixing the IV, monitors, and oxygen.

"Twenty-nine year old male, gunshot wound to the upper torso," the assistant surgeon announces while the nurses strip the man of his ruined uniform. The officer’s police badge glimmers in the fluorescent lights as they cut the fabric away and unstrap his bulletproof vest. It was only a chestplate. A lot of good that's done, when the man's been shot from behind. It makes Smith feel ill, reminding him too much of the underfunded, budget-cut facility under his feet.

As the last of the bloodstained clothing is tugged free, the man’s badge accidentally slips out of the pocket of his ruined shirt, and clatters to the floor. Smith scoops it up and hands it to an assistant trauma nurse, who wraps it in another plastic baggie with the man’s wallet and keys.

“Dr. Smith, when you’re ready.” The anesthesiologist instructs.

Smith nods and steps towards the operating table. The man before him is young, and pretty, with dark hair and a close-shaven stubble. His pale skin is dotted with freckles at the tops of his cheeks. He breathes steadily, for now, but Smith knows how quickly things could go wrong.

Smith closes his eyes momentarily as he puts on a fresh pair of gloves.

_Please_ , he thinks, _don't die on me, mate. Not today_.

 

* * *

 

The surgery is successful. Smith feels bodily relieved, and the come-down from the rush of adrenaline leaves him satisfied with his work for once. Over the course of a few hours, he resets a dislocated jaw, takes out someone’s ruptured appendix, and stitches up some knife wounds. Later on, Smith goes up to the police officer's recovery room, to talk to him. It was common for trauma surgeons to check up on their patients after they were sufficiently stable, to go over their injuries when they first arrived.

Smith walks down the hallways, hearing steady beeping and a low buzz of a television. It’s times like this that he finds a moment of peace. No urgent disaster. No lives to be saved. Just the only shred of calm a hospital has- the place where people are healing.

The door to room 426 is ajar. Smith gives a cursory skim over his notes on his clipboard: Ross Hornby, twenty-nine year old male, gunshot victim, junior officer for the city police department.

Smith takes a deep breath, knocks, and walks inside.

The man is still pale, but he looks better than he had been on the operating table. There’s more color to him. His blue eyes are tired but cognizant.

"Officer Ross Hornby? My name is Dr. Smith. I'm the one that stitched up that gunshot wound for you." It was sort of weird to Smith to internally refer to someone his age by something so official-sounding. It’s not like he calls Trott by his formal title, “Dr. Christopher Trott”. But then again, he and Trott are friends. Smith rolls a chair close to the man’s bedside and sits down, extending his hand out for him to shake.

Officer Hornby looks up at him through a medicated haze, but manages a small smile and shakes his hand. "Thank you."

Smith gives him a weary smile back. His heart lurches at the whispered gratitude. The way it was said was something he hadn’t heard in awhile. Most people who come through the ER shoot him a quick thank you. Nothing like this.

"Of course.” he replies, “I'm just here to ask you a few questions about how you're feeling, alright?" He takes the clipboard off the end of the bed, and a pen from his pocket. They talk for a little while, and Smith finds himself asking a little about the man himself. On one hand, it's to see how he's faring linguistics-wise, assessing his faculties. And Smith can't help but be a little curious about him.

“You arrived in the ER with a gunshot wound to the upper abdomen. From our assessment, the bullet came from a low-muzzle velocity weapon…”

“A handgun, yeah.”

“Did the police take your statement already?” Smith asks, looking up momentarily from his note taking.

Officer Hornby nods slowly. “The fellow police officers on my precinct stopped in. And my family visited.”

“Have they all gone for today, or is someone staying with you overnight?”

“I made sure they went home to take care of Watson.”

“Watson?”

“My dog. Black lab. He’s always searching after something.” The man smiles fondly.

“Ah,” Smith smiles back. According to the nurses, people were in and out of Officer Hornby’s room all day after he was moved out of recovery. The attractive cop had quite a few admirers, if the stack of cards, chocolates, and flowers on the bedside table says anything. _Lots_ of chocolates.

“I see someone’s taken the liberty of eating your green jello for you, too,” he remarks, noting the empty container. Smith guesses that a family member or friend had mistakenly ordered food. The officer would be on a restricted, liquid-only diet until tomorrow morning.

The man wrinkles his nose. “Green hospital jello’s weird.”

“Not a fan of lime?”

“I like lime, but I don’t trust the color.”

Smith chuckles, “Well, four out of five doctors say it’s not terrible. I don’t blame you, though- I prefer the orange kind myself.”

He licks his thumb and turns a page on his clipboard. “Let’s see...you’ve suffered from some serious internal bleeding. The bullet chipped a rib on the upper right side of your torso, drove a hole through your liver and lodged in your gall bladder. We ended up having to remove your gallbladder and a portion of your liver. It’s likely you’ll have some muscle and tissue damage in the surrounding areas, which in time, will repair. The chip in your rib is superficial, and shouldn’t cause any untoward side effects. And you can live without the parts of organs you lost. You're very lucky.”

“Lucky,” Officer Hornby repeats. He blinks heavily, staring up at Smith.

Smith clears his throat. “Yes. Do you have any questions for me? Another doctor will be assigned to your rounds until you’re discharged from the hospital. They’ll be in shortly to talk to you about physical therapy and such.”

The man shakes his head.

“Alright. Let me just take your vitals, here…”

Smith unhooks the stethoscope from around his neck and rolls closer to the bed. His fingers are warm on the man’s skin as he slips the metal resonator under his surgical gown and listens to his heart and lungs. For a moment, Smith is struck with the realization that this wouldn’t be possible if he’d made a mistake hours earlier. He can feel the officer watching him, but he doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Everything sounds good,” he remarks quietly, removing his hands and draping his stethoscope around his neck again. He finishes his paperwork, and chats with him a little more.

" _Paging Dr. Alex Smith, to the Emergency Room. Paging Dr. Alex Smith, to the Emergency Room._ " They hear over the intercom.

"Ah, that'll be me. Good to meet you Officer Hornby, good luck in your recovery." Smith stands and shakes the man’s hand again.

“Ross. You can call me Ross,” Ross replies with a smirk, “You’ve already seen inside of me- you don’t need to use an honorific.”

Smith smiles. “Of course. Good luck, Ross.” His fingers are warm on Ross’, and Ross holds his hand for longer than strictly necessary.

"Will you be coming back?" Ross asks. He lets go of Smith’s hand and settles back into the pillows. “Or will I need to page you over the intercom, too?”

"Er, well,” Smith chuckles. Pain medication is kicking in again, it seems, if the cheeky smile on Ross’ face is a clue. “I have other surgeries I have to get to. But, maybe?" He isn't sure why he says that- he can't promise Ross anything.

But with a smile like he has, well...come on. He _is_ rather cute. Even if he is a bit dopey on pain meds at the moment.

"Okay. Thank you, again. Thank you so much." Ross says genuinely.

"Just doing my job." Smith replies. His smile this time is tight-lipped. "You need your rest, so I'll leave you to it. Oh, before I forget, though-" He takes the bullet out of his lab coat pocket with a macabre chuckle. "Do you want this? Police said they caught the guy, and evidence won’t need it. Most bullets are destroyed, fragmented on impact when they hit a bone- I was surprised we found it intact. I can throw it out, if you want."

"You keep it." Ross replies sleepily. "That bullet could have killed me, but...you saved me from it."

Smith is shocked into silence for a heartbeat. "Right. Well. Get some rest, Ross." He shares one last smile with the man, and leaves.

 

Later that night, Smith turns the bullet in his fingers. He sits in his office off-clock with a glass of whiskey, waiting for Trott to meet up with him so they can go home.

Out of so many gunshot victims Smith has seen, Ross survived. Why? What made him different? The fact that he was a cop? Not that Ross didn’t deserve it, no; not that other victims _didn’t_ deserve to survive…

But what made _Smith_ so different? He wasn’t any better a doctor than anyone else on his team. Was luck all it was? The smallest chance that he succeeded?

Ross’ words repeat in his head.

_That bullet could have killed me, but...you saved me from it._

A bullet, at first designed to kill, but yet...it's sort of a sign of hope to him, now.

Smith rolls the small bit of metal in his palm, and thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> eligere facere bonum- Latin for "choose to do good"
> 
> Smith's lizard-patterned tie:  
> http://www.vineyardvines.com/silk-ties/printed/vintage-lizard-tie/1T0361.html  
> Smith and Trott's car:  
> http://assets.bwbx.io/images/users/iqjWHBFdfxIU/idfyxl1pKc9U/v1/1200x-1.jpg  
> Smith's shoes, as made popular in the 80s via the movie "Flashdance":  
> https://img0.etsystatic.com/000/0/5670888/il_570xN.133289972.jpg  
> Smith's old NYU sweatshirt:  
> http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=14705499
> 
> interesting science/medical links:  
> http://ideas.ted.com/death-and-the-missing-piece-of-medical-school/  
> http://ideas.ted.com/curiouser-and-curiouser-a-cup-of-tea-with-oliver-sacks/  
> https://www.thetrace.org/2015/09/bullet-injuries-wounds-trauma-surgery/  
> http://www.medicaldaily.com/how-do-hospitals-dispose-dead-bodies-discreetly-333894
> 
> police codes:  
> 444 officer involved shooting --- 10-0 use caution  
> 10-4 yes --- 10-10 fight in progress  
> 11-10 fight with weapons --- 10-32 man with a gun  
> 11-32 shots fired --- 10-48 need assistance  
> 10-52 ambulance needed --- 10-69 message received  
> 10-99A felony warrant


End file.
